Ewe Yews

It’s not exactly the swallows and Capistrano, but sheep are back at Hill-Stead.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Theodate Pope wanted a country life.  Her rusticity was sophisticated, but at its core Hill-Stead was a farm.  The property boasted peach and apple orchards, greenhouses, silos, barns, out buildings and was as up-to-the minute in farming practices as was possible at the time.  Miss Pope prided herself on her award-winning livestock.  Sixty years later, Lil and Juliana, Hilda, Emma, Irma, Hattie, Poppie, Succotash, Jasmine, Crash, Elsie and Rhubarb are the harbingers of what we hope brings back the Hill-Stead legacy of farming.

 Thanks to the generosity of friends from up the hill, sheep once again dot the property.  Our sheepherding neighbors let us “borrow” their sheep during the warm months, and sweeter visitors you couldn’t ask for (the shepherds are darn nice, too).  To me, there is nothing more companionable than sheep.  “Our”  Shetland Sheep spend the summer eating the poison ivy and listening to poetry every other wednesday night during the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival.  They seem to like poetry, and baa now and again during the readings. But they don’t let on which poems (or poets) they prefer.  

 Shetland Sheep are wonderful, and have bloodlines dating back 1000 years.  They are a dainty breed, not much larger than some sheep dogs.  At seventy-five to a hundred pounds, the ewes are pretty and nimble.  Rams are only about twenty-five pounds bigger.  Though fine-boned, they are rugged.  An “unimproved” or “primitive” breed,  they retain the robust nature of their Viking forebears.  I take exception (on their behalf) to the use of the word “unimproved” when it so clearly in their case means “not in any need of improvement”.  Shetland sheep are easy-going –their tails don’t even need to be docked.   In the literature, these tails are charmingly referred to as “flute-like”.  I don’t know exactly what that means, but if someone described any part of my physique as flute-like, I’d take it as a compliment.  These sheep are good mothers, and no-nonsense lambers.   As one of the oldest British breeds they maintain the fine characteristics of ancient wild sheep, meaning, among other things, that they are plucky and trouble-free.  Our ewes are winsome and Hill-Steaders are, quite frankly, besotted with them.

 Theodate was quite an Anglophile.  Having  British sheep on the place would certainly fit her vision of Hill-Stead, which included  stone walls built by stonemasons straight from England, and Capability Brown-inspired landscape architecture. It may be no accident that there are so many yews around the place.  Yews are about as English a tree as you can find.  The wood was the steel of the day before the industrial revolution, and its strength coupled with its flexibility makes it even today a preferred wood for longbows.  Robin Hood, legend has it, used yew for his.

But yew is poisonous-except the berry or “aril” as botanists call it.  Don’t heave a sigh of relief.  The seed within the aril is toxic,too.

 There is little point in trying to suss out the Japanese cultivar from the English or American.  Suffice to say the plant is evergreen and can be tamed into a shrub or let loose into a handsome tree.  The yew grows charmingly by leaving a bough on the ground so long it takes root and becomes another tree.  Thus, it is sometimes hard to say which is the paterfamilias amongst a grouping of yews.  A yew is a shrub or a tree, a hedge or an accent plant.  They grow in sun or shade and like a nice pruning now and again.  Most evergreens don’t. This explains its outlandish popularity as a suburban plant. In ancient times, it may have been the only British evergreen. We can see why-sun or shade, shrub or tree, accent or hedge. Few plants can claim such versatility. In this, they are similar to our sheep!

 Perhaps the most impressive feature of yew is its medicinal derivative -taxol.  Widely used in the treatment of breast and ovarian cancers, I (like many), may owe my life to it.  The pleasure at seeing it in full growth around our property cannot be imagined.

On a lighter note-the yew has the honor of being perhaps the first modern Christmas tree.  Queen Charlotte (wife of Charles III)  decorated a yew with sweets and toys and illuminated it with candles for a party of local children at Windsor on Christmas Day in 1800.

So there are ewes and yews, in ways oddly similar.  We are thrilled to have them both here at Hill-Stead. 

See you on the trails,
Diane Tucker, Estate Naturalist

Sassafras

If you take the Woodland Trail from the farm road you head up a little hill.   At the top there’s a turn off to one of the other trails.  I like to stay on course for a while.  There are other opportunities to switch, and I enjoy heading down the hill to a little dell where an ecotone forms.  An ecotone is an area where different kinds of habitat meet. They can be rich locations for all kinds of wildlife.  This spot has a tiny meadow, some scrubby woodland and a  nearby wetland area.  You can find many birds and the spot just has a good feel. I often linger and see what turns up.

Looking to the left at the bottom of the hill and toward the back of the little meadow there, almost right under Route 4, you’ll see a stand of trees with very straight trunks clustered together.  It looks a little Burnham Wood-Come-to-Dunsinane, but I checked and there isn’t anyone hiding in there. 

Every one of the trees looks the same, sort of.  Trunks are similar and the height varies, but none are much out of proportion with the others.  The wacky part is the leaves.  Some look like a simple ellipse, others like a mitten.  A third kind looks to my eye like a dinosaur footprint.  What tree produces three different kinds of leaves? Actually, there are a few species like mulberry and burr oak, but the habits and the characteristics of the sassafras (never mind the rollercoaster name) are really neat.

Sassafras is the “go-to” plant for loads of folk remedies, yet at the same time has a bad reuputation with the USDA as a potential carcinogen.  Go figure.  The hill people versus science.  Who knows what to believe?  Frankly, as a confirmed lover of Cajun food, I have to endorse the use of file-a key ingredient of gumbo.  I like the old Hank Williams song-”Jambaya, crawfish pie and the file gumbo….”-my mother used to sing it to me.  The leaf of the sassafras is dried and crumbled to produce the spice and thickener essential to so much Cajun cuisine.

Among the many other uses found for it over the centuries, sassafras has taken a star turn in candy, root beer, soap and perfume.  After its introduction in Europe, it was served up in England as “saloop”-sassafras tea served with hot milk.  Everyone loved it so much that it became in 1610 a condition of the Virginia charter from England.  It also found favor as a remedy for colds, rheumatism and skin disorders. 

The sassafras, known sometimes by Native Americans as “the greenstick” tree, starts out just so-as a green stick seemingly growing without obvious genesis.  While the plant can grow from seed, the most common (and annoying I am forced to say) is its habit of growing from “suckers” or volunteers from hidden rootstock derived from mature trees. Sassafras can grow inches a year, so it gets big quickly.  Loads will grow all at once.  A full grown tree can reach sixty feet, so it’s hard to imagine you wouldn’t see the the materfamilias, but with a big crown, the mama can be pretty far away and you might not notice it. The greenstick volunteers grow in horrifying profusion and are practically impossible  to get rid of in a backyard or garden. 

In a sense, you have to give the sassafras some credit.  The suckers spring up in droves when the originating tree is cut down as if to protest the demise of its kinsman and keep the bloodline going.  Thus the army of them down by the Woodland Trail.  They are hardy nearly everywhere, and in many cases prized as an ornamental.  In places it is loved for the pretty fall foliage, which can develop in an amazing variety of colors.

Crush a leaf between your fingers; whatever else you may think about its growing habit, you’ll love the fragrance.  This member of the laurel family disperses its pretty perfume quite readily, and you may find yourself pining for a root beer. 

See You on the Trails,
Diane Tucker, Estate Naturalist

Note:  Photo credit:  Rosanna Hamilton

The Remains of the Day

I get a sinking feeling when the year winds down.  As the old song says, “the days grow short when you reach September”.  I have the emptiness that comes with leaving and with loss.  It’s a little like moving day when you look around at the boxes and the spaces on the walls where your pictures used to be.

Not that fall is complete misery. It’s just time to move on. The crackle of leaves is pleasant, the misty mornings and the ambiguous nature of the weather has a certain joie de vivre.

Our meadows are mowed, well after insects need them and way after any nesting grassland birds have moved on.  We follow a plan recommended by the USDA and our state DEP, hoping that proper management will encourage decling species to keep a foothold here.  We do everything we can with our meagre resources, and try to be conscientious.

It’s a different landscape without the rippling grasses and wildflowers.  The crickets are still singing day and night.  But the walking is crunchy now with a little frozen dew in the morning.  It isn’t really a frost, but it brings frost to mind.

I had just finished a walk the other day, in freakishly chilly, drizzling weather when a few snowflakes fell.  I wasn’t ready for that.  All was well again two days later, with waves of chirping sparrows coming through and the crickets back at their singing.  You can’t deny the foreshadowing though.

Autumn is the season of dispersal as well as hunkering down.  Flowers have gone to seed, and you aren’t worth a toss as a naturalist if you don’t come back from a walk with a few “hitchiker” seeds sticking to your sweater.  I pull the burrs from the burdock and give them to my little daughter.  They are “nature’s jewelery” when you stick them on yourself.  Several together can make a stunning brooch.  Some say burdock was the inspiration for velcro, since it has a sort of hook-and-eye construction, but I think this may be more country legend than truth.  Tickseed can make a real mess for you to painstakingly yank out when you get home, and there are loads of other flower seeds that like to take a ride when they can to travel somewhere new to grow.

There are so many ways for a plant to get around.  Hitchikers are one, but I favor the seeds who take to the air.  Except for being afraid of heights, balloon travel has always appealed to me, so maybe that’s the reason.  In spring, who doesn’t enjoy blowing the seeds off a dandelion clock with a big puff of air?  In fall I’d have to say that milkweed might be my favorite, with it’s silky strands that really seem  like parachute material holding on to the seed at the bottom.  The seed is the balloon’s basket, of course.  The whole affair is enclosed in a sort of warty-looking pod.  It’s shaped like an elfin ear.  When they are green you can split them open and yank out the silk and the seed.  The inner wall of the pod is smooth and soft.  When fall deepens, the pod gets brown and breaks open on its own, freeing the silken seed parachutes to fly far and wide on the breezes.  I cheer them on, hoping that every single one will yield a plant.  It’s a vain hope, but of course that is the nature of hope overall. Still, it would be nice.  Milkweed is the foundation of life for the Monarch Butterfly, who eats and lays eggs exclusively on this plant.  The milky latex sap of the milkweed also confers bitterness on the bugs, so that birds who try to eat them only try it once.  It cuts down on mortality quite a bit.   Lose your milkweed and lose your monarchs-it’s simple.

Some plants just hunker down right where they are.  After pollination seeds form and just drop right there.  It doesn’t always happen right away.  Many of them drop their seeds over the winter.  Nature has it timed so that they get moisture and light just right for them to germinate properly.  During the fall you can see them all clustered up, waiting for a good, stiff winter wind.

Queen Anne’s lace puckers up its umbel into a neat package, a lucky haven for many insects.  A great walk is to go from plant to plant gently teasing open the umbel skeleton to see if something is tucked up in there to pass the winter.  Crab spiders can often be found, and others who spin tiny webs inside the umbel, a shelter within a shelter.  Little beetles and weevils lurk in there, too.  You never know what you’ll find.  It’s a world in a wildflower.

See you on the trails,
Diane Tucker, Estate Naturalist

Goosey, Goosey Gander, Wither Shall I Wander?

I have nothing against our maple-leaf-loving neighbors to the north, but I wish they’d take their geese back.   Or maybe a way could be found to discourage the goose diaspora to the United States.  The thing is, the geese keep stopping and staying here, eventually joining golf clubs and messing up everyone’s tee times.  Literally.  Ever try to play through a flock of Canada Geese?  Forget the plaid slacks-a hazmat suit would be more like it.  The course will be covered in goose guano if the flock has been there for more than fifteen minutes.  Slip in it and I’ll wager you’ll be happy to cede the game to go home and shower.

Maybe your ball lands somewhere near the flock, or heaven forbid, IN it.  The geese will  run you off the course, hissing and flapping their wings.  Don’t let them catch you, because a good peck from one of those bills really hurts.  After all, when they aren’t playing golf males use the beak to fight with other males for the favor of a lady goose, and to otherwise defend the nest or family. Geese are regularly preyed upon by skunks, coyotes, ravens, crows and domestic dogs, so that beak is powerful.  One thing you can say about a gander -they’re good family men.  Canada Geese are extremely social (with each other) and form strong family bonds. The gander will go to great lengths to keep the brood safe. And female geese are pretty fierce, too.

The Canada Goose is considered migratory, and it largely remains so.  Still, in ever-increasing numbers this handsome bird is finding conditions in the U.S. to its liking and putting down roots. Flocks frequently take over golf courses, suburban lawns and other grassy areas near water. Soon the water is fouled by fecal matter produced due to their rapacious appetite for vegetation. An individual goose can make about a pound of “fertilizer” a day.   In a way, Canada Geese are a little like flying cows.

Why do the geese stay?  In some cases, it’s simple.  People feed them.  Also, golf courses, school campuses and similar spots are, from a goose point of view, perfect places to raise a family.  There is plenty to eat and perfect nesting conditions.  The ideal location has water with unobstructed views all around, the better to see predators sneaking up.  Reservoirs and golf course water hazards are made-to-order.   Once a goose couple have tried a spot and liked it, they’ll bring family and friends back in exponentially increasing numbers year after year.  Before too long, the chromosome that determines migratory behavior can even change, so that the goose doesn’t get the signal to move on and the bird becomes a year-round resident. 

Because Canada Geese make such messy, upsetting neighbors, many methods are used to scare them away.  In rural areas, where geese can make short work of grain fields, air cannons scare them off.  Some golf clubs use dogs for hire that run around putting the geese up in the air.  There are coyote decoys which work as long as someone moves them around.  If left in one place, the birds quickly figure out the ruse.  Some communities even have “egg addling”.  This is shaking the eggs so that they become scrambled egg in situ.  Bitter chemicals are sometimes sprayed on vegetation so the birds will go find less pungent chow.  The danger is that the chemical effects other than bitterness are not yet known.  Of course, many states allow for a limited season of hunting, and it must be said that Canada Geese have fed people in the northern hemisphere for hundreds of years.

Goose migration is a leisurely affair, with many stops to eat and rest so they arrive at their wintering grounds in good shape.  Families travel together, most often as part of groups that form the familiar “v”  as they fly.  The “v” helps birds take advantage of the slipstream from the bird in front, minimizing drag and enabling the group as a whole to fly for longer.  Geese mate for life, though if a mate should die, the remaining goose “remarries”.  Goslings that survive their first year often return with their parents to nest alongside them. This is one way flocks get big so quickly. Geese can live a long time-in captivity up to forty years. Wild geese don’t have that kind of longevity, but they can last longer than many smaller birds. So flocks that get big tend to stay that way.

We remain happily gooseless here at Hill-Stead.  Our pond is surrounded by vegetation-anathema to cautious geese.  Certainly some stop off for a quick feed, but none have tried to linger.  Just as well.  It’s a long drive to Canada, and I’d hate to think what they’d do to my car on the way.

See you on the trails,
Diane Tucker, Estate Naturalist

Theodore, Simon, Alvin..Alvin…Alvin!!!

 

There is no real solitude in the woods.   Even on the trails at Hill-Stead, which are nearly always quiet, your every move is noted.  Each bird, insect, amphibian and reptile, every mammal down to the least of the smallest order is aware of your presence.  Without the internet, how do all these creatures find out what’s happening?

 There is a certain natural antipathy between some groups of animals.  Bobcats and mice, for example, have little amity.  One eats the other, the other fears the first.  That’s the end of the relationship.  Some animals are mutually indifferent.  They have no use for one another simply because, well, they have no use for one another.  They live side by side each filling up his niche in the ecosystem without having any actual interaction, even to the extent of eating or being eaten. They are all alike in one way however:  they don’t trust people.  They vigorously warn of your approach.  Subtle bird cries, frantic scampering or studied silences can greet you.  Perhaps the loudest of the early warning systems is the clarion call made by the eastern chipmunk.

Quite a few people think the sound is a bird.  It has a certain bird-like quality.  Bird- watching types frequently refer to “chip notes”.  But the name for the bird sound was coined from the warning noise the chipmunk makes.  Surely you’ve heard it.  The Eastern Chipmunk has notoriously indiscriminate housing preferences, so you might encounter it as easily in your backyard as in the woods.  Indeed, the sound isn’t out of place in a lot of parking garages I know.  Chipmunks are everywhere.  About the only places they avoid are deep forests where little sunlight penetrates.

Passing along a trail you periodically hear the belligerent, “chip”!   Approaching the chipmunk’s position, the “chips” get closer together.  As you draw nearer there is a frantic twittering in the leaf litter.  This is repeated throughout the walk whether by one or multiple chipmunks, depending on the length of your walk.  You might be in danger of hearing loss in the upper registers if you walked far enough!  Remind me to skip the Appalachian Trail. 

Chipmunks are rodents, though cuter than some, and in the same way that mice can be troublesome, so can the “chippie”.  They play havoc with crops, for example.   The Latin name for the Eastern Chipmunk is tamias striatus.  “Tamias” means tresaurer or hoarder.  This is where chipmunks really excel, harvesting huge stores of food to put away for the winter.  They stash the food in a burrow, in tunnels up to thirty feet long with multiple entrances.  The entrances are disguised by the chipmunk who carries away the excavated dirt in huge cheek pouches so that mounds of diggings won’t give away the location.  They  are level with the earth around them to make them still more inconspicuous.  The chipmunk bunks down in a nest of chewed up leaves, and has several food caches within the burrow containing nuts, berries and seeds.

Not true hibernators, chipmunks doze during winter for long periods, waking up to nibble from the accumulated larder, which can amount to a full bushel of food.  The dozing is known as “torpor” from which creatures can be roused to eat or even roam around during a mild spell.  Chipmunks don’t fatten up in the fall as some animals do, they just stock up, carrying their groceries home in their capacious cheeks, which when full can be about the size of a ping pong ball. 

What with three miles of stone walls on the property as well as rocky forested areas, Hill-Stead is prime real estate for chipmunks.  The place has them by the score in every corner.  I just hope they aren’t too noisy for you.

See you on the trails,
Diane Tucker, Estate Naturalist

A Murder of Crows, a Scold of Jays

You can’t hear yourself think in the woods lately.  Henry David Thoreau wrote in his journal that, “Silence alone is worthy to be heard, silence is of various depth and fertility, like soil”.  Well, he definitely didn’t write that one on an early fall day.  The Blue Jays and Crows spend them screaming like banshees!

 As fall approaches bird behavior changes quite a bit.  During the summer many nesting birds skulk around trying to raise their young inconspicuously.  They keep quiet so predators can’t find them.  As babies mature, family groups call to one another, fledglings beg for more easy meals.  But it’s all pretty much sotto voce.

When the  nip of autumn begins, the woods errupt with the raucus sound of crows and jays organizing themselves for the winter.  Blue Jays are pretty, and kind of flashy with their bright color scheme and stylish lines.  Crows lack the jay’s style, but impress with their size and outsized call.  They are both members of the Corvid family of birds, known for their intelligence and mimicry.   Crows are among the smartest of birds and are known for their use of tools.

This time of year corvids sort themselves into groups.  The job requires alot of calling back and forth, and I’d say the jays take the prize for most loquacious.  They have a large repertoire of sounds and calls and they remind me of a motorcycle gang revving their engines as they speed through town.

Crow flocks are different from Blue Jays’.  Crows don’t hang out together all day, they just group together at night in a roost.  These roosts can contain many thousands of birds, much to the horror of people living near them.  The noise is deafening, and the mess-!  There are many theories why crows and some other blackbirds roost in this way. It may be for safety, warmth or even a more efficient way of finding of food.  There used to be a huge crow roost down by Park Road in Hartford near the highway.  You could see crows from all over the county heading for it in the late afternoon.   About a year ago, it mysteriously disappeared. 

  Blue Jays buddy up into smaller groups, and spend the fall careering around eating acorns.  They love to visit feeders, and will take suet as well as seed.  When folks get sick of feeding maurading gangs of  jays, they often bring their feeders in.  Don’t bother.  The birds check back periodically and once the feeder is out again they recommence their visits.  I told you they were smart.

See you on the trails,
Diane Tucker, Estate Naturalist

Dinner on the Hill

 

Imagine a  setting with a beautiful stately home in the background.  The front lawn is set with long tables, people talk in groups and wait for a farm feast to begin.  Lively music fills the air.  The sun sinks lower in the sky, and trees have just the beginnings of fall colors at the edges.  There is the sound of laughter and animated conversation.  The beauty of art, food, conviviality, nature and hospitality blend in a relaxing and inspiring way.

I’m not making it up.  It was reality last Sunday as we celebrated  first year of our farmer’s market.  Over the summer we played host at Hill-Stead to a collection of superb farmers, who brought fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses, flowers and many other locally made items to our beautiful property each weekend.  “Our”  farmers even grew the food for the  feast.

Every weekend from July forward, literally thousands of visitors shopped, enjoyed live music and learned more about the area at the market’s community table.  Some stayed for a walk on our trails, some visited the museum home that contains work by Monet, Manet, Renoir and many other artists.  They enjoyed the hospitable yet elegant atmosphere of the residence of the Pope and Riddle families.  People shared picnics and conversation.  It was truly the realization of an ideal shaped by Theodate Pope Riddle herself:  the celebration of agrarian life alongside the sophistication of a fine country home,  a welcoming atmosphere and a dedication to community.

The farmer’s market continues through October, and we look forward to a bounty of locally grown products next year.  Join us!

I’ll see you at the market,
Diane Tucker, Estate Naturalist

Heading Home

It’s hard to quell an urge to run away.  Sometimes you just want to get up and go.  The trouble is,  you can lose your reason for leaving the further away you get.  The departure unfocuses and redefines you, a paradox of being human. 

The Green Darner Dragonfly is unencumbered by such metaphysical consideration.  He gets up and goes in style!  A  large, flashy insect with a green back, his blue belly looks purple when the dragonfly is cold.   Green Darners are hard to miss, particularly so when they form swarms  and head south in early autumn.

The Common Green Darner is one of just a few varieties of migratory dragonflies.  Insect migration is still largely a biological mystery, and only recently have dragonfly travels been studied.  What is known is that dragonflies migrate similarly to birds.  Or rather, that  birds migrate like dragonflies, since dragonflies predate birds by 140 million years.  Like birds, it takes a couple of days of cool weather to inspire the bugs to move, and they do so in groups that sometimes number in the thousands.  Sue Sturtevant and Cindy Cormier saw a terrific example of that one day last week as hundreds of green darners zoomed through the kitchen garden while they were having a meeting on the back porch.  When I stopped by, the yard was teeming with flashing wings and aerial acrobatics.

Dragonflies use some of the same guides for navigation as birds, and in 1955 a hawk watcher named Frank Nicoletti observed that American Kestrels (a small and beautiful falcon) often migrate in groups along with the dragonflies.  The kestrels use the dragonflies as travel snacks along the way, snatching them out of the sky for a quick meal.

There is still much to learn about the dragonfly odyssey.  For example, the darner that flies south this fall will not return here in the spring.  Instead, his progeny will make the trip, leaving him to procreate down south for another year.  Thereafter, that same darner may come north again, switching  places with his offspring.  What controls that  bi-annual trade-off is unknown.  How do they know when to stay and when to go, and how to get there?   

We begin to see that humans are not alone in yearning for a place of belonging.  Migration is not homesickness, rather it seems to be an inexorable tug towards an indigenous fixed point.  A turtle will cross a four-lane highway to return to it’s natal pond to breed.  Birds, bats, frogs, turtles, insects all migrate.  Monarch Butterfly migration has achieved celebrity status.  

In people, wanderlust is abetted by business concerns, schools, jobs and such that send us off to points distant.   Yet somehow, the throng of dragonflies in the kitchen garden the other day had the same feel as an airport or train station on the day before Thanksgiving.  Perhaps we are more in visceral sympathy with nature than we realize.

See you on the trails,
Diane Tucker, Estate Naturalist

The Gall!

  Nature is the ultimate adventure story.  Filled with sex, death, devotion, pestilence,  battle, enslavement and disaster, it makes  Stendahl look like a comic book.  In comparison to natural history, War and Peace is uneventful.  Let’s face it, if  what you saw on a PBS “Nature” episode was translated into a human plotline, you’d never watch it and say, “Now, THAT was realistic!” 

Nature’s true-to-life stories are more complex and dramatic than any fiction.   Consider life on a wildflower stalk.  By Fall, goldenrod is a hold-out among blooming plants.  Nectar-loving bugs seek it out with gusto.  A single spray can be a frenzy of insects.  Pollinators come, but predators do too.  With bad timing, that nectar-rich repast could be a final meal.  If a boy and girl of a given species should visit simultaneously, love can bloom among the blooms, as it were.   Boy meets girl on botanical campus, and the rest is history.  Sex and death in a centimeter.

But the stems of certain goldenrods look as though they’ve swallowed a ping pong ball, others as though they’ve eaten a tiny football.  Still more have their proximal leaves contorted into a bunch.   What’s going on? 

The plant has been invaded, becoming a  sort of unwilling insect incubator.  The protuberences,  known as galls, are the result and can be found in any stand of goldenrod.  Each shape is the signature of the insect that made the plant into its unwitting nursemaid.

The most common goldenrod gall is the “ball” gall.  In Spring, the Goldenrod Gall Fly lays an egg on the growing plant.  When hatched, the larva burrows into the stem of the plant, eating  out a chamber within.  This stimulates the growth of the gall around it, thus providing more food for the developing larva.  By winter the larva is fat and juicy-perfect for ice fishermen to use as bait!  Many the sliced thumb is the result of cutting through a woody gall to get the worm out. 

The “elliptical” gall is made by the Goldenrod Gall Moth.  A variation on a theme,  the moth egg is laid onto a leaf in Autumn and overwinters there.  In Spring, the egg hatches and burrows  as a caterpillar into a goldenrod bud. The elliptical gall forms and the caterpillar feasts all summer from inside.  The lifecycle is completed in the Fall and a small empy chamber is left  for possible use over winter by a tiny spider or insect.

 

The “bunch” gall is the handiwork of the Goldenrod Gall Midge who oviposits at the tip of the plant’s main stalk.  The stem fails to elongate, and the leaves back up on each other like cars in a rear-end collision,winding up  twisted together.  This suits the midge egg  and other insects who take advantage of the thick swirl of leaves.  The cluster forms a home for many, including the lovely Crab Spider, who slowly changes color to match the plant it occupies.  The gall midge has its own curious feature:  throughout its reproductive life it produces either male offspring or female, but never both at the same time.

Never mind fiction, you can’t make this stuff up.

See you on the trails,
Diane Tucker, Estate Naturalist

Woolly Bear Time

 

Spoiler Alert! Woolly Bear caterpillars are not indicators of a hard winter to come! Children educated on the American East Coast have been misled! Rural folklore says that if the reddish-brown band around the middle of the caterpillar is narrow, a harsh winter is coming. In reality, the size of the band reflects the age of the caterpillar, with the band growing wider as the larva ages.

It’s no surprise that this familiar creature has a little legend attached to it. The thing is adorable! And they are all over-in yards and pastures, crossing sidewalks, moving about in their determined, furry little way. Kids crow and coo over them. Something this cute and plentiful just has to have a sweet (albeit false) story to go with it.

Another fallacy is that the woolly bear shoots venom from its hairs which can cause injury and swelling. Sometimes those bristly hairs do produce a little contact dermatitis in people with sensitive skin. Still, having observed hundreds of children pick up these hairy wanderers, I have yet to know one who got much more than a tickle. What I have seen is children joyfully “helping” the caterpillar get from one place to another. Sometimes the poor thing is sent in the wrong direction no matter how many times it tries to turn around. While a dilemma for the caterpillar, it is a terrific thing for the children, who experience the excitement and pleasure that interaction with nature brings. Anyway, there is no Woolly Bear shortage. During a short walk on a warm Fall day you can find half a dozen woollies moseying around looking for a winter shelter. Let the children redirect the caterpillar. It does more good than damage.

The Woolly Bear is a moth larva as most caterpillars we find are likely to be. There are more moth species than butterfly, so odds are that caterpillars you see will become moths.

Isabella Tiger Moth

The Woolly Bear will grow into an Isabella Tiger Moth. The Tiger moth family is diverse, and known for their pretty colors. You don’t see them often as caterpillars, with the exception of the Woolly Bear, since many are ground dwellers or even burrow into wood. To make identification more complex, many change color dramatically as they mature.

The Woolly Bear may be plentiful because it will eat nearly anything including grass, dandelion and a variety of other vegetation. Becoming more active around the time of the first frosts, it pokes around for a good spot to sleep away the winter. In spring, woollies become active again, searching for a good feed before spinning a cocoon and maturing into a moth.

Take a lazy walk around the meadow one day between now and the hard frost. Count how many woolly bears you find. You can even let me know by leaving a message here or in the trail log.

See you on the trails,
Diane Tucker, Estate Naturalist

Pink-Legged Tiger Moth (credit Seabrooke Leckie)